


My eyes tell the truth my lips do not speak

by litra



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen, I take the cannon I want and ignore the rest, Jaskier's unpleasant backstory, Memory Loss, Pre-Slash, Witcher!Jaskier, Worldbuilding, cannon memory loss, mix of cannon, off-screen mistreatment of children, scholar!Garalt, time skip, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29407392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/pseuds/litra
Summary: Geralt has been living quite comfortably at the university, teaching his classes and getting on with his life. Then a Witcher sits down at his table... When there aren't supposed to be any witchers left, and saying things he though he'd put behind him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold, Jaskier | Dandelion & Triss Merigold
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	My eyes tell the truth my lips do not speak

Geralt settled into his usual table at the crossed quills. He waved to Lily the barmaid for his usual ale and mincemeat pie. Normally the crossed quills was an establishment that was filled with quiet conversation and studied debate. being just off the  Oxenfurt  campus meant it was a favorite haunt of the faculty and senior students. Apart from the alchemists getting into a row every now and then it was a comfortable pace where Geralt could go over his student's papers. Everyone knew him there. He knew everyone else at least by reputation even if they weren't close. 

Then the Witcher walked up to his table and asked his name. 

Geralt would have said he was an imposter, monsters were the things of fairy tales. Geralt should know, that was his specialty. He'd spent the last 20 years learning and teaching everything he could about folk legends and magic. Witchers were a part of that. This man with the crossed swords and the golden eyes and the spattering of scars fit the bill. Normally that wouldn't have been enough to convince him. He'd seen others try their hand at the act. four years ago the drama department had asked him to consult to make up a costume. The eyes were a nice touch, hard to achieve, but not impossible. There were colored lenses and herbs. It was in enough of the stories that if the man hadn't included them Geralt would have been disappointed. He could see that one of the swords was silver as well. That was in the stories too, but a man playing an act often wouldn't have the money to commission a proper blade.

No, it was the medallion that caught his eye. A snarling wolf. The medallion was rare in the stories, and only those who had studied extensively would know how the wolf head was shaped. Only Geralt and a handful of others in reputable universities, all of whom he knew. 

He scanned over the man's face. Boyish, short light hair, that he'd actually taken the time to style. Expressive lips, with a hint of teeth in the smile. The man was tall, but not overly broad. Too pretty by half for this act.

"They're not real," Geralt said, finishing his ale. He gathered his papers into a pile, and pulled out his coin pouch. It seemed he wouldn't be getting any grading done.

"What your name isn't real?" The false witcher asked, with a laugh.

"Witchers." He could give a whole lecture about how Witchers had played the part of the shunned monster slayers. How they acted as scorned knights or mercenaries in the stories, hated even when they were successful. He had at least four essays in his bag debating the meaning behind it. 

Instead the man raised an eyebrow. "Says the man with white hair and golden eyes. Tell me you aren't Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!" 

Geralt's jaw locked shut. He forced himself to keep moving, not to show any surprise. He turned for the door. People were watching, but none of them stopped him. They all knew that he wasn't one for company when he was in a mood - all but the stranger.

The man followed him out onto the street. Geralt lengthened his stride, but the man was fit.

"White hair, gold eyes and a scar across your left eye. Tell me I'm not wrong." 

Geralt kept walking.

"Or at least tell me what I should be calling you if you're not him." 

Geralt nodded to the guards at the campus gate, not stopping as he marched past. One of them stepped up to the stranger, hand out to block his path.

"No swords on campus."

Geralt heard the stranger sputter, but didn't look back. He ducked around the first corner he came to, and finally breathed freely. 

The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, The Butcher of Blavican. He knew all the names for that man. HE knew he had the white hair and even the gold eyes - though few realized as much with the reading glasses he wore nearly constantly. Yes, he had scars, but they were decades old and mostly faded. Geralt climbed the stairs to his small flat and closed the door firmly behind him, leaning back against it as he breathed out the tension in his shoulders.

Two centuries. 

It had been nearly two centuries since the daughters of the black sun had cast their spell and the sorceresses of Aratusa had tried to cancel it. Two centuries since the magic in the land had been buried or smothered or extinguished or whatever they'd done. Two centuries since the monsters stopped breeding, the elves disappeared into their forests and the dwarves into their hills. Two centuries since anyone had seen a Witcher. 

He was not Geralt of Rivia. He didn't want to be that man, the last of his kind and hated for everything he represented, a scarred mutant with bloody hands. 

Two centuries. 

Two decades...

Maybe he had stayed at  Oxenfurt  too long. Maybe... But maybe he'd never see the man again. Maybe the drink was making him maudlin. 

Geralt considered the papers yet to be graded in his bag, then turned to his bed instead. A long bath would have been better but he didn't think he could haul that much water up the stairs in his current state of mind. He'd end up breaking something or punching something... 

He stripped down, carefully not looking in the mirror over his wash basin, not tracing the old scars. He turned down the lamps and pretended the light from the window wasn't enough for him to see clearly. 

***

Jaskier slumped as the man turned the corner and vanished. He still had his scent. He could have followed him, but all his instincts said that wasn't the way to snare this one. 

He stepped back from the gates, holding up his hands so the guards would relax. 

He'd come to  Oxenfurt  in search of Gerard, the professor of fakelore and historical fantasy, as the stories of magic were called these days. He'd never thought he'd find Geralt of Rivia. He needed to think about this. He needed to learn more. 

Jaskier considered his options, then headed back to the tavern. He'd seen a notice board out front of it and if he was going to stay for a while he'd need to earn something for his keep. 

***

Geralt looked over the lecture hall. just about 50 seats, not all of them full. There were something like 35 students getting settled, and pulling out notes and textbooks. This was his introduction class and plenty of people took it even if they weren't interested in folklore or history. He was proud to say he was able to make a class that was required credit interesting. He looked down at his notes waiting on the small pedestal at the front of the room. He hated using the chalkboard, the white stuff got everywhere and he'd smell like it for the rest of the day. Instead his small stack of papers was neatly cornered with the textbook and his extra quills. He didn't need them, he'd told this story often enough it was like he lived it. in the distance the clock bell rang. Geralt turned and nodded for his assistant to check the hall and shut the door and took a breath as the hall went quiet. 

"The story of Princess Adda Page 46 is your books." He pauses while they find the page. "Because this story is about a noble it has more historical evidence than most folktales, but written accounts are conflicting. Princess Adda is not mentioned anywhere before she entered the church of  Melitele  for schooling at the age of 14, not even a birth or christening, let alone the formal announcement of her lineage that should have been made at her first birthday. 

"While her father reported that she was sickly with the death of her mother and later that she needed special treatment. There are other accounts that report a very different story. The Sorceress Triss Merigold wrote to her matron reporting the event."

Here Garralt closed his eyes and lowered his voice, not trying to imitate or imagine what Maragold would have thought while she wrote, but letting his mind wander.

"The late queen had died over a decade before and while there was controversy over the death it was only remembered distantly. The more immediate concern was the creature attacking the townsfolk. The minor's guild had been hit hardest, and with war on the border everyone was set to riot. The king implemented a curfew, but not before a Witcher arrived to deal with the issue."

Geralt paused at the familiar words, the context from the night before shining a light on this element of the story.

"The name of the Witcher is not known. Triss Merigold reported that he entered the crypt and was found dead just inside the gates the next morning. They moved his body and laid it to rest with all honors, and the effigy is one of the few solid reports of Witchers that remain."

Geralt cleared his throat and continued the tale. "It was the second witcher that this tale truly speaks of. Triss Merigold names the White Wolf, and in her letter claims that she brought him to the king with the hope of resolving the problem for good, and there was no more skilled monster hunter in the land. The king refused the help of the white wolf and in his writings mentions bandits and spies as the culprit. Again there was war on his borders. 

"But continuing Triss's account: She took the Witcher to the royal physician and they spoke for some time of the old queen's temperament and the events that took place before her death. Triss wrote that after some interrogation the man admitted he had been in love with her and when she had been lost, had spoken to a hedge-witch to curse the father of her child.

"Not the dichotomy. It is a sorceress telling the tale and yet another - a hedge witch - who is the root of the curse. A man who was not married to the queen, taking her to bed and another man who cursed him for loving her. A Witcher who fails and one who succeeds. A notable difference from the rule of three that is often seen in aural records."

He scanned his eyes over his students. Most were watching him or scratching out notes. There were a few in the back that were whispering to themselves but that was their own choice. A latecomer slipped into the back of the room, shushed by his assistant.

Geralt cleared his throat, lifted the book and read from the page. "For several years the striga roamed Old Visima, stalking and devouring the unwary. Until the white wolf arrived, no one had been able to kill her or lift the curse." He closed the book without pausing in his lecture. "The Courtier who had cast the curse was used as bait. He was killed as he tried to run. The Wolf used that time to draw the striga away from her crypt. As dawn approached the striga realized the danger, and fled back to safety. They struggled in the crypt and eventually the witcher succeeded. The curse on Princess Adda was broken at least for the time being, though records show that her appetites' were strange - even by noble standards - for the rest of her days."

He turned and set the book down with the rest of his notes. The official reports told a different story but enough people had been in on it that it was hard to deny the truth. Geralt turned to look out at his students. A hand was raised in the back, a young man with blond hair...

"Yes, you have a question?" He gestured at the student. There was something about him. Not one of his regulars but he'd seen him before. 

"Yeah, how did the Witcher kill the striga?"

That voice struck home at the same time his eyes finally pierced the darkness at the back of the hall. It was the witcher. He wasn't wearing his swords, and instead of leathers he had a quilted coat that served double duty as thick enough to blunt a fist and fashionable enough to blend in. The dagger he was wearing openly might not have been against the rules but unlike most of the young lordlings Geralt was pretty sure this man knew how to use it. 

Geralt let out a low sound, something between a hum and a growl. The witcher just smiled.

"You skipped that bit in the story," The witcher picket up a textbook from the nearest desk, throwing a wink at the quietly protesting girl it belonged to and flipped through the pages. "Or is it not in here?"

Geralt ground his teeth. He knew the witcher was baiting him, and in another situation he'd have just walked out, like he had the night before, walked away and let the kid get board with whatever game he was playing. Except the rest of the class was watching him now, eager for an answer. quills hovered over the page...

It went against everything he knew to give them bad information, even if it was trivial - and this wasn't - Even if they'd never use it - just an odd fact from an old class.

Geralt breathed in through his teeth, and spoke, "The White wolf held off the striga until near dawn, then he bound himself inside her crypt, and sealed the lid until the sun rose. when the cock had crowed three times the spell was broken."

The witcher had a distant look on his face and his mouth was open. Well at least that had shut him up.

"Wait, one of those stone crypts they build for royals? It would have to be or the striga would have just yanked it open. Those things are heavy as shit. And if it was sealed how did he breathe?" 

Well so much for shutting him up. Geralt closed his eyes and grunted, "He meditated." Before turning to pick up the textbook again. He had a job to do and he was going to do it. 

"This is not the only account of a striga affecting high-born households. The striga is considered one of the more powerful dead creatures which grants it more majesty in the telling. The fact that in all these stories, the striga uses a crypt as it's resting place during the day, and most farmers either burn or bury their dead may contribute to this." 

Garalt fixed the witcher with a flat glare, daring him to interrupt. Instead he was watching him, those bright yellow eyes shimmering in the gloom. He idly handed the textbook he'd borrowed back to the girl, sliding into the seat next to her. He charmed her into giving him some spare paper and was soon scribbling as furiously as his most diligent student.

Garalt sighed, then drew himself back up to his full height. If the witcher wanted to audit one of his classes, so be it. As long as he wasn't a nuisance, it wouldn't matter in the long run. He went on, comparing the striga to the more common werewolf and contrasting effect these stories had on the cultural mentality. 

The witcher listened and took notes and tried to ask questions even when Geralt deliberately and obviously ignored him. By the end of the lesson Geralt was wound up and irritated and just wanted to go back to his rooms and take the bath he'd been too tired to take the night before. He needed to relax. He needed a good lay. He needed that witcher to leave him alone. 

He packed away his things and accepted the homework that was piled on his desk doing his best to look too busy to poke at. His assistant took the hint, as did most of his students, but the witcher was stubborn once again. He waited until Geralt was all packed up and turning for the door before sticking his hand in his face. 

"I didn't get a chance to introduce myself last night. I'm Jaskier. Pleasure to meet you professor..." he trailed off waiting for Geralt to provide a name. 

For his part Geralt looked at the hand then slowly up to the man. If this had been their first meeting, how differently would things have gone? He wouldn't be so resentful, that was for certain. Normally he liked when students took an interest, and this man could pull off the look of a student well, with that wide open smile and the curiosity pouring off him. It wasn't until you got to the eyes that the truth showed through. The feline gold held a danger, but more than that it held a depth. Something that wouldn't be out of place in the face of a war veteran or a refugee. What had the man seen that had led him to play the witcher?

Jaskier... He was still waiting for a name, standing casually unmoving in Geralt's path to the door. Geralt sighed. it wasn't like the man couldn't find out what he was calling himself easily enough.

"Gerard Rivers."

Jaskier's face paused, then spread in something close to joy. "Really? Now you can't tell me that is a coincidence-" 

Geralt grunted, shouldering past the man before he could start babbling. 

"Oh no, please Professor Rivers, a few minutes is all I ask. I just have a few questions and you are undoubtedly the expert on this subject. Your lecture was fascinating by the way. Very helpful. I mean I already knew about the silver - most do - but the striga isn't one I'd heard before and you walk very fast, could you just--" By that point they were out of the lecture hall, down the steps in front of the building and headed across the square. Many of the students were still mulling about and were now watching as Geralt firmly marched towards the faculty building and his office. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there other than slam the door in Jaskier's face, but he'd figure it out when he got there. 

"Please, Professor I just need-" Jaskier caught his arm, and Geralt moved, twisting without thinking, he caught Jaskier's arm, pivoted on his back foot, grabbed his shoulder as momentum carried Jaskier forward and sent the man rolling across the cobblestones. 

Jaskier reacted just as quickly, rolling back to his feet and coming up in a crouch. One hand flickered up to his shoulder before he remembered he wasn't wearing his swords and went for the knife at his belt instead. 

Around them the students had gone quiet, watching. Geralt realized that his hands were trembling. Jaskier scanned the area then slowly straightened and put his dagger away. This time when he smiled, it was sharp, dangerous. 

"I'll accept a drink as an apology for that. Honestly I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Throwing people across the street, what would the other faculty think."

Fuck. 

He hadn't meant to do that, but he didn't like to be touched, and the witcher had caught him off guard. There would be rumors about this no matter what he did. Everyone had seen him snubbing Jaskier all class. Only the high court of the realm liked to gossip more than academics and reputation was everything. 

"Five minutes," Garralt grunted.

"Ten."

Geralt growled, and turned, resuming his path to his office. He'd give the man his ten minutes, but he wasn't going to buy him a drink on top of it. 

Geralt regrets the choice immediately. Having the witcher in his office, filling up the small space with his expressive hands and the smell of sword polish and some overly complicated mixed oil, is not something he wants to deal with. The choice has been made though, so he grabs the stack of books off the second chair - not because he wants the other man to be comfortable, he just doesn't want him to put them on the floor or something - and took his own seat behind the desk. He glanced pointedly at the small clock.

"Right okay so I originally came here looking for you, or someone like you I guess, not you specifically. Well sort of - but I'll get to that. See I've been trying to kill a nightwraith, over just outside of Cedar Grove. It's only my second year on the path so it's the first one I've run into and well, I'm kind of stumped. pretty much everything I've run into so far - either the silver takes care of it or just stabbing in enough times will take care of it, but--"

He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture. Geralt hummed. He did know about wraiths, both noonwraiths and nightwraiths were tricky. There were things that supposedly helped deal with them, but each one was unique. 

Jaskier nodded and plowed on. "So I asked around and this guy said there was a professor who frequented the Crossed Quills who knew about that kind of thing. Then I saw you and I thought 'Hey that has to be the guy I've been looking for, even the scars are right! Must be my lucky day!' So yeah, sorry for jumping you like that. I figure you must have your reasons for not going back to Ker Morren, but You would not believe how long I've wanted to meet you." Jaskier grinned, wide and bright and unapologetic.

Geralt grunts again. Then he leans to one side, and pulls a book off a shelf. Jaskier leans forward and takes a breath like he's about to say something else. Geralt shoots him a glare, but isn't surprised when the other man ignores it, reading off the title under his breath

"An extended treatise on the nature of the vail? Really? I mean I haven't read it but are you sure that's the right book. Sounds like some old snot obsessed with his own death wrote it."

Geralt paused, hand hovering over the cover. "I wrote it." He grunted. 

The witcher opens his mouth, and makes a few unattractive little sounds before shutting it again. 

Fuck it. Geralt shoves the book at him. He has another copy somewhere and it'll be worth it if it gets the other man out of his office. 

"Chapter twelve," He said and he stood, and pointedly stepped toward the door, holding it open. This time his glare had the desired effect, and Jaskier nodded as he slipped out into the hall. 

The worst of it was, Jaskier was right. He had been obsessed with death and dyeing and curses at the time, trying to figure out his own situation. Not enough to try to end his life or even go out and do something dangerous like actually try to find one of the creatures he was writing about, but it was there. 

A nightwraith... He wondered who had died to create it. He wondered if Jaskier would be able to put the spirit to rest. Oil, he'd need to coat his blade... Was that in the book? There had been five or more drafts, had that made it into the final one? Except that no one had seen a nightwraith for nearly two centuries so that couldn't be it. 

Geralt ran a hand through his hair, it was getting long. Soon he'd have to make a choice about cutting it or not. He looked at the door and wondered if he'd ever see Jaskier again. Not that he wanted to, it was just odd. The man wasn't what he'd expected...

***

The witcher did not return the next day. Geralt Was able to slip back into his routine for the rest of the week. Word quickly got around about the abbreviated fight but when nothing came of it the usual drunken squabbles and academic rivalries stepped back into prominence among the gossip circuit. With the last class of the week finally done Geralt found himself heading for the crossed quills without really thinking about it. He hadn't been back all week, not since Jaskier had first found him there. Was that coincidence or an instinctual fear? He didn't like the thought. It made him head for the bar rather than his usual table ordering a bottle of stiff Temarian rye. Geralt had always had a stronger tolerance than most. He drank the regular ale for the taste, not its effect. 

How many times had that young Witcher crept into his thoughts? It only met the man twice but he'd made an impression. That smile of his... If Geralt didn't know better he'd say the man was easy to read. In any other situation he would've looked at that smile and... 

His drink arrived with the meat pie he hadn't specifically asked for, and a book.

"Best not to drink on an empty stomach," Lily said, laying everything out. He ordered a meat pie more often than not, she knew he would eat it. Geralt wondered if it was a peace offering. Some kind of bribe...

"What's that?" He grunted, nodding to the book as she set it on the table. She shifted, her shadow falling away and he recognized the cover. An extended treatise on the nature of the vail. If you had to guess it was even the same copy. Not that many had been printed in the first place. But that one had a mark on the cover, a curved stain from that one time Geralt hadn't been able to find anywhere better to put down his mug.

"Your Witcher friend asked that I pass it back to you the next time you came in. He left yesterday afternoon. There was a note too, it's just inside the cover there." Lily gave him a look that he couldn't quite read and turned back to her job.

Geralt wondered why the young man hadn't returned it to him at his office, or after one of his classes. Had he been trying to be polite? Had he realized that he'd pushed as far as he should and decided to back off? Why not send the book back with a messenger or something? Why not just keep it? Geralt hadn't expected to get it back...

He squinted down at the book, flipping open the cover with one finger. A folded piece of paper sat there, scratches of handwriting visible through the thin lief. The thought that he could ignore the note crossed his mind and was immediately dismissed. If he did it would only haut him with what it might have said. 

Geralt sat back. The smell of the pie tempted him to pick up his fork. He ate, and sipped at the rye. IT wasn't nearly as smooth as he would have liked. Geralt ended up knocking back half a glass before squinting at the book and the note again. 

To hell with it. and to hell with the Witcher. 

He snatched at the note, holding it up to the flickering candlelight. 

_ Professor, _

_ Sorry to run like this but I figured you wouldn't miss me and I've got to get back to Cedar Grove. Your book was quite helpful, and I'm sure I'll be able to find whatever is holding the poor girl here.  _

_ On another note, I never got to tell you the reason I was so excited to see you. You see Triss Maragold is still alive. She's the one who told me about Witchers, you in particular. Hearing about her in your lecture was fascinating. She is bound to the place of power under Ker Morren. If you are the white wolf I'm sure she would be pleased to see you, were you ever to visit.  _

_ I wish you all the best and hope I will be allowed to call on you again should the need arise. _

_ Jaskier _

Geralt read the note, then finished his drink and read it again. That couldn't be right. Marigold might have been a mage, but she didn't know how to create Witchers, moreover, there was no reason to, there were no monsters to fight. Marigold would know that. Marigold would know...

She would know how dangerous it was to even try to create a Witcher. She would know that even in the old days when they could have used as many Witchers as they could train, only three in ten survived the grasses. And that was ignoring the fact that the old and powerful chaos magic had died with the rest of it. The old mages had either killed themselves trying to access it, or withered over a century ago. 

Had Jaskier just tossed out her name? But inviting him to Ker Morren... 

Geralt tossed the letter back on top of the book. Everything Jaskier said contradicted everything he knew, and yet, he didn't contradict himself. What game was the man playing? Was there even a wraith in Cedar Grove? He closed the cover of the book on the letter and poured himself another drink. Even when he wasn't present the Witcher got under his skin. He should just put it behind him. Write it off. 

He knocked back his glass again. The world was starting to go soft at the edges. Maybe that was why he pushed himself to his feet. Geralt left a handful of coins on the table, tucked the book, with the note into his bag and headed for his rooms. With the door firmly shut behind him, Geralt dug his old traveling bag out from beneath his bed. The letter was just where he remembered leaving it. The paper had gone yellow and the wax seal had dried and cracked, but it was still readable.

The familiar words stood out before his eyes. 

_ My dear Geralt... _

_...Trouble in the court... _

_...Don't know when I will see you again... _

_...If you hear anything... _

_...I hope to see you soon. Triss... _

He'd read that letter so many times, the edges of the paper was noticeably darker from all the times he'd handled it. The handwriting was different of course. Geralt had known it would be, but he still noted the curves of the vowels and the upward tilt to the strokes crossing the Ts. The hidden meanings behind the words had been lost an age ago. He had searched, but...

Triss wasn't a common name, but it was common enough to make the hunt difficult, especially without a family name.

Triss Marigold...

What had they been to each other? What stories would Jaskier tell him if he asked? Would any of them be true? 

"Fuck" Geralt granted, setting the letter aside hand bringing one hand up to rub at his eyes. What was he doing? Why now, after all this time? “Fuck," he said again, this time with feeling. The travel bag sat innocently at his feet. The alcohol in his blood was egging him on. He had responsibilities, things that shaped his life here. A life he'd spent the last decade building. He couldn't just up and throw that all away.

It was the end of the week. Cedar Grove wasn't that far on a good horse. He had office hours on Monday but no actual classes... Three days... Jaskier might already be gone by the time he got there... But if he left tonight... The sun was low but not down yet and the roads would be properly policed along the river...

Geralt dug in his bag until he had the book and Jaskier's letter. Was he really contemplating this? He couldn't properly blame it on the alcohol, not a choice this mad and strange. 

He'd once crossed the continent just for a hope of an answer...

He'd regret it if he didn't...

Jaskier's letter went back into the book. The other folded carefully into his pack. Two set's of clothes. His good boots. Flint. A length of cord. Bread, cheese, fresh water. A coin pouch with everything he could spare. A blank journal. Ink and quills. His small alchemy set. His hand mirror and shaving kit. He tucked them all into his bag as much precision as haste would allow. 

A letter, he'd need to tell... someone... his assistant, and the deen and possibly his landlady. No he'd only be gone for a few days, but if something happened... The ink and quills came back out of the bag, scribbling out a hasty and likely nonsensical explanation on some spare sheets of paper. 

What else? There will be something he missed, he knows it, but looking around his rooms he can't see what it might be. His small room isn't so cluttered that everything important can't fit into a few bags. 

He locks the door behind him. First stop is his office on campus, where he leaves the letters and locks that door too. Then he thinks better of it and unlocks the door to add three or four books to his bag, before closing everything up again. There's a stable two streets away. The man doesn't want to rent him a horse so late in the day and him without being able to say when he'll return. He buys a sturdy looking Roan mare instead, adding feed and tack for her to the bill he sends to the school. It's not like he was doing much with his research budget.

The mare's name was Rose, but "Roach" was what came out of his mouth when he turned her onto the road.

He rode until dusk, stopping at a waystation house only when the horse had started to shy. The way station served the king's messengers, so they weren't surprised to see a rider come in so late, but without the king's seal he'd have to pay his own way. A few coins bought him a meal, grain for his horse and a lumpy bunk to sleep in. A few more and the aging innkeeper was happy to tell him about the witcher who had passed through.

He woke, cold and stiff, but with the determination of the night before still broiling in his gut. Roach set a steady pace that had the miles passing, if not easily then at least fairly quickly. There was no convenient waystation his second night on the road, but Cedar Grove was still too far to risk. He stopped at a farmhouse instead, telling his story to a sturdy black man who allowed him to stay in his barn.

Four hours on the road the next day and Cedar Grove came into view as he crested the hill. It was a small village, unremarkable except for the mill and the tall stone wall that ordered one side – built in the previous age and blessed by Meletele not to fall. He barely saw the villagers he passed, only noting that none of them wore the twin swords or had that flash of yellow hair. 

He didn't know where Jaskier would have gone if he wasn't here. Had he dispatched the wraith already? Had he died in the attempt? Had it all been a lie? He pulled roach to a halt outside the first business he came to. It was a blacksmith, the dwarf bent over and busy shooting an old mare. 

"Dwarf, have you seen a man with two swords?" Geralt asked, still scanning the crowd. The dwarf looked up and huffed something under his breath. Geralt fought the urge to push him. 

"Go and ask at the inn like a regular person, or get off your horse and pay for my time." The dwarf spat onto the dirt and went back to the mare.

Geralt gritted his teeth and pushed on. 

The in, when he finally found it 10 minutes later, was a two-story building and no sign declaring what it was other than the old woman knitting on the porch who was apparently determined to talk to everyone who passed her. Admittedly, if he hadn't been so single-minded he might have found the in sooner.

"A man carrying two swords, calls himself a Witcher, have you seen him?" He asked again, this time giving her the courtesy of getting off Roach before he spoke. 

"Oh aye, a good young man, quite mad but friendly enough. Stayed a few nights, asking all around about all sorts of things. That was a few weeks ago now of course." She waved one knitting needle through the air then started the new row. He grunted, and privately wondered if there was a way to speed her up or if there was someone inside who would tell him what he wanted to know straight. 

"Far too interested in young Ella if you ask me. That lass deserves some peace after all that trouble with her brother. We all tried to help mind you but there's only so much an old woman can do."

"Did he come back?" Geralt interrupted.

"Ella's brother? Yes, that's the whole trouble. never was right in the head to begin with, that boy. They all said soldering would straighten him out but you can't cure that kind. Spoiled milk is spoiled milk, doesn't matter how you try to cook it."

"The witcher?" His tone came out sharp and short, more so than he intended. Maybe he's been in the city too long if an old woman is getting to him. He's gotten used to academia and the comforts of teaching. There had been a time when he would have gladly listened to this woman tell her stories all evening in hopes of picking the valuable lore from the chaff. 

"What? Oh yes, came back yesterday, or was it the day before... Didn't stop to talk though. Said he knew how to take care of things now and then went up the hill. He did ask about Edger as I recall, but like I said he's a bad egg, went off after Ella's trouble. didn't even stay to take care of things. Had to learn about her death from the goose girl who went up to the house. Poor girl was given the fright of her life."

It clicked into place. The wraith, the girl the old woman was going on about, Jaskier. Had Jaskier said it was a nightwraith or a noonwraith? he couldn't remember. 

"Ella's house, where is it?"

The old woman raised a knobly hand and pointed, "Up the hill, and past the arch in the wall. Take a left when you reach the old rose patch and you should see the roof." 

Geralt started to turn away but the old woman spoke again, and he forced himself to stop and listen. 

"Did you come about Ella and Edger? We did send word to the magistrate but you never know with these things. So kind of that young man to offer to help but it's plain as day he's not official. Not that I've anything against it mind you but there are ways that things are done."

"I didn't know about Ella. I'm looking for the young man, the witcher." Geralt turned Roach in the right direction and put one foot in the stirrup, but before he could mount up, she spoke again.

"Well you can go on around back then. Poor man stumbled back in with the day. Far as I know he's still in the back garden."

Geralt took his foot out of the stirrup, and breathed out slowly. "Thank you," He managed to say. He tossed Roach's reins over the porch railing and circled the building at a trot.

Jaskier was there, kneeling in a corner of the yard with his hands resting on his knees. His silver sword had been planted in the ground next to him, casting a long shadow over the grass. Jaskier didn't move as he got closer, didn't even open his eyes. His breathing remained slow and steady. 

Jaskier was meditating. Geralt let out a slow breath at the realization. He could probably get his attention, but it would probably be better to wait. Witchers often meditated to help accelerate their healing abilities, and give their potions a chance to take effect. Not that he was certain Jaskier was a witcher. There was still a chance he was putting on an act... one that he was quite dedicated to...

Geralt sighed, and took a longer look at Jasker. The man was wearing thick leather armor that had clearly seen action. sections over his arms and shoulders had been burned at some point and there were twin lines of neat stitches across his right side. He looked too young to have seen that kind of action, his features soft as he meditated. Geralt discarded the image of a boy dressing up in his father's armor and turned away. He would see to Roach, then he would get some food and maybe a room. 

When Jaskier came back to himself, he'd get his answers.

***

Jaskier opened his eyes, took a deep breath and had to blink a few times at the sight presented to him. His sword was just as he'd left it, the shadow now small from the sun directly overhead, the inn at his back was the same. The grass was the same apart from where a young goat was nosing at some weeds. The only thing out of place was the professor he'd left back in  Oxenfurt . The professor had hauled a barrel out into the yard. He was writing in a notebook, nudging the goat away whenever it got too close and tried to eat the paper. 

"Huh," Jaskier closed his eyes firmly then opened them again. The man was still there, now looking at him through a pair of small round glasses. Jaskier smiled, he couldn't help it.

"Were you waiting for me? Should I be flattered?" He stood, stretching out. He resheathed his sword and did a quick mental inventory. The aches and pains from the night before were mostly gone, and the ones that were lingering would likely be gone by nightfall.

The professor pulled out a folded piece of paper, "I had a few questions."

Jaskier grinned then caught himself, crossed his arms and put on the most haughty frown he could manage. "As I recall, you turned me away quite soundly when I had questions for you. I didn't even get the dinner we agreed on. Why should I?"

The professor growled. It was incredibly amusing. Even if he hadn't looked like the white wolf, Jaskier would have still compared him to a grumpy old dog. 

"fine, I'll pay for dinner."

Jaskier lifted an eyebrow. "And drinks and you have to answer my questions."

"Question for a question and I won't answer if you push it."

"In that case I get to dismiss your questions if I choose." Jaskier's hands went down to his hips. His arm throbbed briefly, but he ignored it. 

The professor hummed low in his throat. "Fine." He stood, tucked the notebook he'd been writing in into a pocket and nudged the barrel back towards the wall.

"Did you kill the wraith?" 

Jaskier grinned and held up a hand, "drinks first, then questions, he said with a wink, and turned to head inside. 

***

By the time they found a place to sit that was quiet enough for Geralt, and had the lines of sight that Jaskeir wanted, and ordered their drinks, and then waited for their drinks to arrive, the stubborn edge of Geralt's will had worn away. All the questions that Jaskier could possibly ask, all the answers he'd looked so hard for himself... To admit the truth to a virtual stranger...

"I killed the wraith. The oil you mentioned in your book was quite useful, and I would've never thought to light the place up like that, so thanks." Jaskier said, setting his tankard back on the table. It was already half empty. Geralt hadn't touched his.

"Good," Geralt breathed out. So he had put the oil in his book, that was good, but... "Like the place up? How much did you burn? You only need to destroy the thing that the wraith is tied to. A diary, a gift they were given, sometimes a piece of clothing."

Jaskier stopped with his drink halfway to his mouth. His shoulders briefly went up around his ears before he rolled one of them in a weak shrug, "well, I guess I'll know that for next time."

Geralt drew his hand over his face, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. What was he doing here? He had a perfectly good life back in  Oxenfurt ...

"My turn; why didn't you ever go back to Kaer Morhen?" Jaskier asked.

Geralt's eyes fell to his drink, and he was suddenly a lot more grateful that he had it. "Kaer Morhen is hidden from people who haven't been there before. I don't know the way." He almost laughed at his own words. It was a hell of a way to skirt around the issue.

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head, "my turn. Who told you about Triss?"

Jaskier blinked a few times and leaned back in his chair, "no one. She told me herself. Probably the best person I've met in the last 10 years. Possibly the only one."

Geralt started to open his mouth to ask for clarification, but Jaskier was looking at him with a single raised eyebrow. He grunted and leaned back, mirroring the other man.

"So? What did you mean?"

Geralt let out a puff of breath. His shoulders sagged and his posture fell away until he was half slumped forward. He took a long slow swallow of his ale then carefully set the mug back on the table. "Many of the stories mention Kaer Morhen as the home of the Witchers, or possibly just of the Wolf school of the Witchers. It's said that the path up the mountain is impossible to find if you do not know where it is. Some stories even say that those who go looking for it with ill intent will be killed. I spent a week searching the foothills. Nothing."

He waited for Jaskier to ask for more clarification again or somehow contradict him but instead the other man just frowned.

"But you're the white wolf. Of course you've been to Kaer Morhen. You were trained there, and Triss said--"

"Where did you meet Triss Marigold?" Geralt cut him off.

"At Kaer Morhen, like I said. She's bound to the place of power there. You didn't know?"

Geralt opened his mouth, then hesitated. He didn't know if that was Jaskier's question or if the man was just thinking out loud. He seemed the type to do that. And, bound to the place of power?

Jaskier gestured for him to get on with it.

"Ah, no. As far as I was aware, Chris Marigold and all the other sorcerers vanished or died with the end of magic."

"Well that's just not true," Jaskier said into his cup.

"Explain."

Jaskeir looked up, then quirked an eyebrow and smiled like a rake. That's not a question." So apparently Geralt hadn't entirely been forgiven.

"Fine, what is the nature of the binding between Chris Marigold and the place of power at Kaer Morhen?" He said each word through his teeth slowly and with deliberation.

Jaskier laughed and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, okay, where do I even begin." He looks down at his empty mug and waved for the barmaid to bring him another. "Now, I'm no mage. I know a few Witcher signs but that's all, so I can't give you the details on how it was done but from what she told me..." He paused again, ran a hand through his hair then continued. "When the whole," he waved a hand in the air, "everything with the magic happened, it was going to be very bad for everyone. So the mages and the wizards and the alchemists all got together and tried to figure out a way to stop it. They had a theory, but no one knew if it would work until they actually tried it and it was kind of an all or nothing deal. Since it was going to be an all or nothing deal anyway they prepared what safeguards they could and went ahead with it. They spread out all across the land, to all the places of power they knew about, and used that power to cast their spell. As I understand it, the spell mostly worked, but Triss is the start where she is. She doesn't have the power to free herself, and if anyone else tries it, it could cause a backlash and undo, well, everything." Jaskier shrugged.

Geralt swapped out his ale for a new mug and tried to work that into the picture he had of the world back then. It wasn't a theory he'd heard before, at least not the part about the binding. There were plenty of theories that the great mage schools had done something to stop the black son and the coming frost but all the details were contradictory. Jaskier's story had less evidence than a lot of others. If he'd heard it in the academic circles he would've dismissed it out right.

"Are you the white wolf? Geralt of Rivia?" Jaskier asked in a low steady tone, like he already knew the answer.

Geralt sighed. "I don't know." He ran a hand over his face again, and before Jaskier could protest he went on, "I've been alive a long time. I don't properly know how long because at some point I was injured. I woke up in a tent with a group of other refugees. They said I should have died five times over. They said I was alone, but since the war had torn the land apart that wasn't so uncommon. There was a healer, Shani, she claimed she knew me but she died before she could tell me who I was. That, and the fact that I was carrying an open letter addressed to a man named Geralt, were all the clues I had to my past for a long time.

"Eventually I did some more research, but by the time I was fully healed and set out the war had grown worse. Anyone who might have known who I was had scattered. Years passed and I figured they were all dead. I lived my life for a while and that should've been the end of it, except I haven't died, I've barely aged, so I don't know. Maybe on the white wolf. Maybe I'm just some poor sap who got himself cursed."

Jaskier watched him through the whole recitation. The yellow eyes Geralt had only ever seen in the mirror, fixed on him. When he trailed off Jaskier nodded once slowly. He clearly wanted to ask for more, but instead he just lifted his mug and drank.

"Are you a Witcher?"

Jaskier's expression soured slightly, and his mug made a hollow sounding thump as he said on the table. "I'm as much of a Witcher as anyone is in this age." He shook his head when the barmaid approached offering a refill. "I think I was stolen from my family," he said hesitantly. "Or maybe sold off. I can't remember liking them all that much. I was five at the time so the details are a little fuzzy. There were whole group of us, all boys my age. I think there were 40 of us at the start but a few didn't last long. They hiked us up a mountain to this great old stone fortress, and said no one would ever find us and if we tried to run the creatures in the forest would kill us. One of the boys, I think his name was Michael or maybe Mickey tried it anyway. I don't know if it was the monsters that killed him, but I'm pretty sure he never made it off the mountain."

"They trained us up there for years. There were three men who kept track of us. I think they were mercenaries, or maybe just old soldiers. Another two would show up every month or so with supplies. Twice a year a rich man would come with them. Well, I say rich man but I don't really know what he was. He was better dressed than all the rest and the others paid attention to what he said. He did take one or two boys aside whenever he showed up. The couple of times he took me aside he made me drink this thick dark tea that made me feel sick. Whenever one of the others disappeared it was always after he had been around. 

"He showed up the spring after I turned 14, and instead of taking a couple of boys aside, he wanted all of us. He gave us a different potion, something stronger. It was the most painful thing I've ever felt, like being burned alive from the inside as all the hair on your body is plucked out and someone is taking a drill to your bones. I can't really remember how long it lasted. I just know that only two of us were alive at the end.

"That was the trial of the grasses, or at least that's what Triss called it. She's the one who taught me about monsters and signs, and what it means to be a Witcher. Our caretakers might've been decent with the blade, but they didn't have a clue about the rest of it. I don't think they even realized that Triss was bound up in the basement, but to be fair that part of the fortress was a real wreck.

"After the grasses the rich guy didn't leave like he normally did. Spent the whole summer monitoring everything me and Valdo did. Except he didn't want to winter there. It always got snowed in really bad and I got the impression he had other things he should've been paying attention to. So he headed down the mountain in the fall. 

"I spent all winter learning everything I could from Triss , and got out of there as soon as the snow started to melt. I wasn't going to let that guy mess with me anymore. Since then I've been looking for the other places of power, the other mages, anything Triss could remember, and doing Witcher work along the way." Jaskier trailed to a stop.

Geralt had leaned back in his chair at some point, head tipped to the side. His fingers were itching for a pen. He wanted to write down everything Jaskier was saying. Wanted to ask him a dozen more probing questions. He could've spent hours or days coaxing all the little details out of Jaskier's story. Jaskier said he'd gone through the grasses when he was 14. He'd escaped the following year when he was 15, but he couldn't be less than 20 now. Had he really been on the road for five years? Where had he traveled during that time? What had he encountered on the path? Had he found any of the other mages? The places of power? What had happened to the other boy?

Jaskier leaned forward, his chin resting lightly on one hand, a finger pressed to his lips. It was his turn to ask, but for once he seems to be considering his question.

"Will you help me?"

Geralt blinked several times. "What?"

"I don't know enough about fighting monsters. That isn't something Triss could teach me. And there are monsters out there. I've seen more this year that I saw last year and the year before. They're coming back. I think..." He paused and licked his lips. "I think magic is coming back. The places of power that I've managed to find - it's like they've been torn open. Like when you rip a scene and try to repair it, and then rip it open all over again. I don't know what happens to the other mages. I don't even know if Triss is still at Kaer Morhen. I haven't been back there since I left. She might've been discovered or something."

Jaskier paused again. He had to swallow and when he spoke his voice cracked. "I can't go back alone."

Geralt looked at the young man in front of him, so strong and yet so open. Bearing all his secrets and trusting Geralt to do the same. He thought of the comfortable life he had back at the University. His little flat, the waitresses who always knew what he wanted without having to ask, the handful of students each term who showed real promise and interest in the subject. He thought of the questions that haunted him year after year. The whispers that always started up after a while." How old was he?" "Why didn't he look any older?"

"I..." he met Jaskier's eyes. "Yes, I'll help you." He took a breath, thought about adding some stipulation, some condition, then dismissed it. Instead he fished out the notebook he'd been working in before, spread the pages out on the table, made sure his pen was ready and spoke.

"Tell me everything."

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> so I had a bunch of ideas for this universe that will probably never go beyond what is written here. I may at some point create a follow-up not!fic but for the most part this is finished. If you like this universe you are welcome to play around in it or remix this story or something.


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